


A Gift

by bluebright_l



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright_l/pseuds/bluebright_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya, still enduring her training in Braavos, gets her first crush...on her first target.</p>
<p>For Jenn, who provided the prompt. <33</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift

She was Cat of the Canals again, selling mussels and cockles and clams. But this time, she had a single iron coin in her pocket, the face on it worn down to nothing. Nothing, just like her. The coin was meant for a certain man, a bravo. Arya had once been trained by a man who had told her of the bravos and their fighting skills, but Arya of House Stark was gone, and Cat had watched bravos coming home from brothels in their cups. This man, whoever he was, would die just as easily as any other. The only question that mattered to her was ‘how?’.

The kindly old man had told her where she might find this bravo, and so it was that she was hawking her wares on a bridge near the Red God’s temple. Night was creeping in with the fog, and when the red priests lit their night fires and she sold her last clam, Cat knew the bravos would be out soon. Sure enough, a group of them passed, dressed in all their finery and spoiling for a fight. But none of them were her man; the kindly old man had described him to her: a tall man, more stocky than the average bravo, with dark hair and blue eyes. He’d also told her the man favored reds and blues, a color combination which had sent a worm of...something, wiggling through her blank facade, but she’d hid that from the kindly old man.

Cat thought these bravos were vain peacocks, strutting about in their finery, but she had to admit to herself, they knew how to fight. As another group of bravos approached from the other side of the bridge, she admired the smooth way in which the first group arranged themselves, all three drawing their thin blades in synchronization. The second group, which had four members, spoke amongst themselves briefly, and when they parted, she saw that the man who would not be fighting was her man. Her mark, the one to whom she would give the gift.

He swaggered over, and propped himself up on the railing next to where she was sitting, and Arya (for she was Arya now, and nothing to be done for it) felt panic swoop in and roost in her gut. She was unsure of the intricacies of the House of the Dying, but she did know she wasn’t supposed to know the person she would give her gift to. She sat very still, eyes flicking back and forth between the two groups of bravos, who were bowing to each other now. She could hear the bravo breathing next to her, and felt it when he boosted himself up on the railing next to her.

As the two groups of men clashed, she kept her eyes firmly trained on them, watching the ebb and flow of a well-fought battle writ small. The men were well-matched, and time seemed to slow as they thrust and parried; although eventually there were three men bleeding their lives away on the uneven cobblestones of the bridge. They were not her mark’s compatriots, and for some unknowable reason, she was glad of it. He hopped off the railing, light on his feet as only a bravo could be, and she risked a glance at him as he joked with one of his friends.

Arya studied the bravo as he examined a slash on the back of his friend. His hair was black and thick, falling to his shoulders with no discernible style to it, rather unusual for a bravo. His face, she was surprised to find herself admitting, was pleasing to look at. In some ways, he reminded her of Gendry; his muscular build, the dark hair, of course, and his eyes, a dark shade of blue.

But unlike Gendry, he had an easy smile, one that reached all the way to those impossibly blue eyes. He was teasing his friend about getting cut on the back, head thrown back in laughter, and Arya found she couldn’t take her eyes away from the long, lean line of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he laughed. He must’ve felt her gaze on him, because he glanced at her and winked before turning back to his friend, and Arya felt her face grow warm and her mouth dry. She hopped down and ran away, the empty box on a strap around her neck bouncing against her belly as she ran, cold rivulets of melted ice and clam juice staining her ragged shirt.

The next few nights were an exquisite torture for Arya. She managed to find out where the bravo stayed, but she got a sick twist in her gut every time she thought about how she might accomplish her goal. She found herself dogging his steps as he visited wine sinks and pleasure houses, worrying her lip and watching from the shadows as he dueled, night after night, spilling the blood of his fellow bravos like so much rotgut wine. Arya was unsure what this feeling was, this gnawing in her gut each time her bravo, whose life and death were hers now, drew his sword from its sheath, but she knew enough to know it wasn’t something to share with the kindly old man.

Arya spent her days resting, as the bravos did, although she found herself unable to sleep deeply. When she would drift off, she would see her bravo, life fading from those deep blue eyes as she stared into them or a crimson stain blooming on the fine silk of his tunic. This last image always jolted her awake, and back to her most pressing concern.

How was she to do this thing? The bravo’s swordsmanship was superb, Arya had seen it for herself night after night. She found herself lying in bed, high windows and dust motes diffusing the watery light of Braavos, thinking of worlds in which the bravo might notice her, tell her his name, ask for hers in return, and on and on and on. She would swing between the highest of highs, thinking about the way his corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, to the lowest of the lows, when she would tell herself she must do as bid, and give the bravo the coin in her pocket.

Finally, Arya decided on a course of action, ignoring the ache in her chest to focus on the cool clarity of her thoughts. She went to the kindly old man’s rooms, remembering his instructions that she ask for anything she needed to complete her task, but he was not there. She thought for half a heartbeat before entering and taking a small vial from his desk. Arya knew if she hesitated now, it would only make the task harder, so she just dashed away, resolute.

She collected her box of seafood down at the docks, and paused a moment. How would she make sure nobody else got the gift intended for her bravo? Arya ducked down an alley and set about fumbling with the vial, trying to see if her hands were nimble enough to unstopper it and drip a few drops without anyone noticing. She was pleasantly surprised at how deftly she could manage the task, though the thought of her bravo slumping over, one last breath leaving that elegant throat, quickly squashed any pride she might have felt.

The rest of the evening passed in a daze, as she sold all but the last of her mussels, saving them for her bravo. Finally, she found him leaving a pleasure house, thankfully alone. She watched him walk away, allowing herself to admire his swagger for a brief moment before sneaking down an alley to get ahead of him. Arya sat, leaning against a low stone wall, and fiddled with the remaining mussels in her box. She thought only a split second before taking out the vial and sprinkling the clear, odorless liquid over all of them. She told herself she’d simply toss anything he didn’t buy into the canal, and quickly schooled her borrowed face into a weary, blank expression.

When the bravo stopped and inspected what was left of her wares, Arya couldn’t help but take a quick glance up into his eyes. They were unfathomable, it seemed to her, and she quickly looked away, drawing the iron coin from her pocket for his change. He was scooping up the mussels into a twist of paper, so’s not to dirty his garb, a silken tunic of varying stripes of red and blue this night, and put the proffered coin into the purse at his belt without so much as a glance.

Arya’s gaze stayed on him as he strode on down the street, sucking a mussel from its shell with gusto. When he turned a corner, still upright, she unslung the box from her shoulders, and got up to follow, needing to be sure. She crept around the corner, and it was too much. He was laying in the street, the mussels spread out across the cobblestones where they’d fallen from his hand; when she went to him, his eyes were already dull and lifeless, the blue clouded over, more closely resembling the grey of her own eyes.

Cat (for she was Cat of the Canals again, she had to be, to bear it) gathered up the scattered mussels in her tunic and sprinted to the canal, dumping the instruments of death away like mere scraps. She watched them sink into the murky water a moment, then turned and padded away, hardening her heart in the dark.


End file.
